


Tempting Fate

by abrae



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-03
Updated: 2001-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/pseuds/abrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>10 years later. AU for post-season 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempting Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2001.

When I was younger and used to tempt fate, I would sometimes wake up wondering what the day held. You know what I mean - wondering if today would be the day...that I discovered the 'truth', that I finally found Samantha, that I gathered the courage to tell Scully I loved her. I never feared what the day might hold, no matter how dire things seemed. Somehow, circumstances seemed controllable, even in the face of those tragedies and failures that dogged us for years.

A child changes all that. Events can be managed, manipulated, but a child - a _life_ \- simply happens, and you're almost powerless to do anything but watch and hope. When Will was born, we changed - without discussion, without argument or debate. Somewhere deep down, we both knew that the future had arrived - all bets were, in fact, off. A baby teaches you that *now* matters, that tomorrow cannot be counted on, and that questioning it, wondering what the future might hold, can be a scary thing.

The effects of our mutual realization played out in our decisions...we married and moved out of Washington. Scully extricated herself from the FBI within a year of Will's birth, working from home as a forensics journal editor. Once my own duties as stay-home dad were largely fulfilled, I turned to consulting - called in on the occasional case as a profiler, but no longer working in the field, no longer looking for X-Files. John Doggett could have them; I needed my family more.

We weren't afraid, but we played it safe. We enjoyed each other and we enjoyed our son - every day, a stronger, bigger, sunnier boy. We made love...we argued, but over little things now. We quit trying to save the world. We stopped wondering what would happen next.

We no longer tempted fate, but caution made us complacent and contentedness is her siren-call.

 

* * *

 

Maybe you know the feeling - when you realize, with a hard catch of the heart, that the ground is shifting beneath your feet, that nothing will be the same again. It begins with a glance, careless and casual; I'm shaving in the bathroom when, looking down into the wastebasket at my feet, I spy several carefully crumpled tissues blotched with bright blood. My hand slows to a stop in mid-stroke and all I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears. A dozen recent observations suddenly gel in my mind...a sleepy Scully nodding off in her armchair, hours earlier than usual...little angry bruises marring her soft skin...her white cheeks and tired eyes...

No coherent thoughts, but if I have to give them words they are all "no."

I haven't seen my wife yet this morning; Scully's taken Will to school - a rare event. I'm supposed to be headed into DC, called in by Skinner on a domestic terrorism case; but, when I'm able to move again, it's only to go as far as the phone. I call the Bureau to tell him I won't be in today, and he hears the fear in my voice.

"Is there a problem, Mulder?"

A long pause, while I consider his question.

"I don't know."

Just three words, but I know I've betrayed my concerns when he says, simply, "Keep me informed."

I try to sound casual, but it comes out tight, clipped. "I'll do that, sir."

Scully's eyebrows rise when she returns to find me sitting at the kitchen table, my tea cold in the mug that reads "World's Best Dad" - a present from Will two Father's Days ago. I glance up at her with an angry look of fear that hasn't been there in a decade, and her pale cheeks suddenly burn brightly. She weakly sits down across from me, a stray ray of sunshine illuminating her lightly graying hair.

When I speak, my voice is low, controlled.

"When were you going to tell me?"

Scully's eyes are wide, stark; part of me wants to go to her, but I'm still too frightened to do anything but sit and stare at her. She takes a deep, shaky breath.

"When I knew."

I fix her with my gaze.

"And do you? Know?"

She nods briskly, biting her lip, and I feel the ground under my feet slip a little more. Her voice is small and scared, but steady as ever.

"Acute myelogenous leukemia."

My mind is blank; I can't comprehend, and I sit dumbly for long moments.

When thought returns, it's looking for a cure.

"Is it - the chip?"

She shakes her head.

"Mulder - " her voice catches. "I think - it just is."

Fifteen years ago, this would have been unacceptable. Today, I slowly nod; sometimes, there's no reason. I've learned that things just happen.

I try to speak, but it hurts. My throat is strained, my voice competing with silent tears for expression.

"When..?"

"Yesterday - I was tested at Georgetown last week, when you were out of town."

I try to mask the reproach I feel creeping into my eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Scully shakes her head again, lost.

"I didn't know how..."

Her hand reaches out blindly across the small table, and I cover it with my own, grasping it as I pull her up, standing to embrace her. I hold her close; she feels so small.

 

* * *

 

There's no time to waste.

Will takes the news better than I expect; it helps, perhaps, that he's only ten. Any older and he might be less secure, more afraid of what it all means. Instead, he's factual - a true Scully through and through.

"So, what do you have to do?

Scully looks over at me as I hover, as always, on the sidelines.

"Well, first I have to go to the hospital for chemotherapy."

"What's that?"

"Drug treatment. I'll have to spend some time there, and then we'll see how well I do."

"Then what?" I recognize the pained petulance of his look as my own.

"Then I'll have to have a bone marrow transplant..."

"Does it hurt?"

"I don't know, Will; I've never had one before."

He accepts this explanation with a little nod; he's so much older than his years.

"Can I come to the hospital?"

"Once I'm done with the chemotherapy..." Scully's voice is softer here, less certain. Will looks to me, and now it's my turn to reassure - whether I feel like it or not.

"The chemotherapy makes it easy for Mom to get sick - to catch colds - so you'll need to wait until the doctor says it's okay to visit her. But we'll go to the hospital every day once you can, I promise; you'll see her."

Without warning, Will gets up from his seat on the sofa and quickly crosses over to Scully. Impulsively, he wraps his arms around her neck, clinging to her. The openness of his affectionate nature is all his own.

 

* * *

 

We lie together in the dark of a cloudy, moonless night. I'm exhausted in the wake of this surreal day - arrangements made, family informed, Will...

As I hold Scully, her head resting on my chest, I feel her thin hand slide over my skin and look down in alarm.

"Scully...what are you doing?"

She is silent, and brings her lips to my chest.

"No, Scully..."

She lifts her head and looks me in the eye, a quiet desperation flickering in her glance.

"Yes, Mulder." Her voice breaks slightly.

We've come together in so many ways over the years. That first time - tentative and half-afraid...playful, later. Rough sometimes - hormone-charged fumblings in the kitchen, hallway, car...

Scully's always matched my arousal with the force of her own; until today, I've never been afraid of hurting her. But now, I don't know how to respond; it doesn't seem right, somehow, and I feel a surge of self-loathing as I begin to respond to her insistent caresses.

She reaches up and slides her fingers across my forehead, down my rough cheek.

"Please...it's okay..."

She snuggles up to whisper, her soft lips resting against my ear, and I almost forget my fears in the normalcy of her touch.

Her sweet, small mouth kisses softly along my face...neck...chest...her hair fanned out, brushing against me. I resist, stifling the moans her ministrations call forth, but she persists.

"I love that I do this to you, Mulder."

I reach down and stroke her still-ruddy hair with my hand, burying my fingers in its rich warmth.

"Scully...you've always done this to me - I can't remember a time..." I stop - a sob threatens to escape. I can't think in terms of time tonight.

Scully creeps up beside me again; she takes my rougher hand in hers and guides it over her own body. Her eyes close and I gaze on her pleasure, admiring the beauty of her graceful lines as her back arches.

Between breathy sighs, Scully opens her eyes and looks into mine.

"This is what you do to me, Mulder...every time...all the time..."

I wrap my arm around her and lay her back on the bed. I move slowly, deliberately, unconsciously imprinting the feel of her body on my mind. Her sighs grow ragged, sharp...I cry out, and I can barely tell if it's in pleasure or pain.

We lie together in the dark. Eventually, her soft pants turn to sobs.

 

* * *

 

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

What a cliche. Part of me - the part that still wants to be cool, or, at least, original - hates the truth of something so trite. But, as the days of Scully's treatment turned to weeks, parts of our past came slipping back into our lives. People we'd left behind, things we'd done together, a time we'd turned our backs on in the hope of preserving our tenuous now.

We'd learned not to talk about that past - the X-Files - in an attempt, I guess, to avoid drawing attention to our quiet lives. I always assumed that Scully was more than happy to leave it behind: a quest she hadn't signed on to, instead drafted by the powers that be - or were. Endless frustrations...losses...pain...it seemed to me that these were all her memories of our work together could amount to. Our association - yes, that was there, too, and I knew better than to think she regretted it. But, in the dark of late, lonely nights without her by my side, it was easy to think that she knew, deep down, how very different her life would have been had I not stumbled into it.

For my part, I had been happy to accept the circumstances of my disappearance as a figurative, as well as literal, death. With my return, I began to realize just what my work had cost me - tangible in the form of Scully's growing body. There was still a glimmer of ambition left in my post-resurrection period, but fate and ambition are uneasy bedfellows - the one goads the other - and I soon found myself turning away.

Ten years...we never talked about it, we never acknowledged it, we never looked back.

Which is why, when I arrive at the hospital late one Friday afternoon, I'm more than a little surprised to see Walter Skinner walking down the hall, carting a box that has "FBI" stamped on its side.

"Sir?" I call out to him and he looks up. The box slips a little - he's not the kickass A.D. of days of yore, and this thing is packed. I run up to him, reaching under to help support its weight.

"Thanks," he replies, slightly chagrined.

Once he has it in hand again, we continue down the hall together.

"Here to see Scully, sir?"

He nods. "She called the other day to the Bureau -" he grunts a little as he hefts the heavy box. "Asked me to grab some files."

I eye the box warily. I didn't know she'd called...and I have no idea what she could want with FBI files.

"What are they, sir?"

For just a moment, Skinner stops in his tracks and eyes me. I return his questioning glance with a look of confusion.

"X-Files. Case reports. Didn't you...?"

His question fades away, and I pick it up with my response.

"I didn't ask for anything, sir. Why would I?"

He considers this, and a worried frown settles onto his features.

"Why would Age- Scu-" he sighs loudly and tries again. "Why would _Dana_ want these?"

I shake my head slowly. "No idea, sir."

We come to a stop at the door of her room, and Skinner peeks inside. She's only recently been moved out of Intensive Care, and we haven't had a chance to warm the place up. She looks breakable in the midst of all that machinery, and I see the faintest smudge of tears spring to Skinner's faithful eyes.

I reach down and turn the handle; we enter together.

 

* * *

 

Later, Scully and I sit together, alone. Our visits are becoming routine, and the edge of desperation that clouded those days just after her diagnosis has been replaced by a cautious, calculated normalcy.

My back is to her - I'm folding the old quilt her mom's been using on her visits - when Scully's voice breaks the silence.

"Bill's arriving next week."

I grunt noncommittally. Of the ironies that have characterized Scully's illness, this is the greatest: only Bill, the brother-in-law who hasn't spoken to me in nine years, can donate bone marrow to Scully.

"Mulder." Scully's voice is softly insistent, and I reluctantly turn to face her. I know what's coming.

"Mom can't drive anymore..."

I cut her off. I'm not a child; I can be adult about this.

"I'll be there to pick him up."

A wave of relief - more pronounced than I expect - seems to wash over her face.

"Thanks. I owe you..."

I smile and reach down, taking her hand in mine and bringing it to my lips in a soft kiss.

"Don't you forget it."

We gaze at each other for quiet minutes, until Scully glances down at her blanket, smoothing it with her hand.

"The doctor says that Will can start visiting..."

I would swear she sounds nervous.

"That's great; he'll be so excited. He asks every night - "

Scully interrupts me with a quirky little laugh.

"I'll bet he does...I've missed him."

I sit on the edge of the bed, gently caressing her small hand, trying to offer what solace I can.

"He's missed you too...talks about you all the time. What procedures you're having, asks how you feel, what you're doing every day...I think he knows more about your treatment than your doctor, for all the research he's done."

She grins; only Will can make Scully smile like this.

"I'm sure he's gotten to be impossible to live with..."

I close my eyes and shake my head.

"He's so like you, Scully. So curious and determined...so like you."

Our words skirt the past, flirting with our memories in a way we haven't done in a decade. This seems to please Scully, who smiles softly and gives my hand a little squeeze.

"Promise me..."

I feel my heart catch and I stare down at our clasped hands.

"Stay here with us when he comes; I want us to be here as a family."

Relief. I'm not ready for any other promises yet.

"Of course. I'm not going anywhere. I'll have him here in the morning; he can miss school for once."

Her eyes thank me, but I don't know what great thing I've done to deserve it.

Skinner's box sits, untouched and unmentioned, in the corner.

 

* * *

 

When we arrive the next morning, Scully is sitting up in bed reading through one of the files.

I try to restrain him - whispering a rushed reminder that this is a hospital - but Will bounds into Scully's room and runs up to his mother. He hesitates briefly at the sight of so many needles and tubes, but the light he brings to her eyes reassures him that it's okay to approach, and he goes to hug her gently.

I follow up behind, laying our coats on an empty chair.

"What'cha reading?"

My ears perk up at Will's question; Scully hasn't been forthcoming about her request for the files, and I've been scrupulously avoiding asking about them. I assume she'll tell me in her own time.

She looks down at the small manila folder lying on her lap.

"Case files."

Will takes it and looks it over with a curious glance, lightly leafing through the dense description.

"What kind of case files?"

Scully smiles and reaches over to him, tousling his hair bit.

"Silly. Do you even know what a 'case file' is?" she asks.

He grins - a broad, happy grin that I recognize from pictures of my own childhood, before Samantha was taken.

"Yeah, sure. Case files are...you know, like what Dad does. Cases..."

I raise my eyebrows in amused surprise, and glance over at Scully. She returns my bemused look, but there's a strange shadow in her eyes. She pats a place next to her on the bed and turns back to Will.

"Hop up here, Will; why don't we look at this one together?"

I watch with wide eyes as Will jumps up on the high bed. I don't understand what this is all about; why should Scully want to show old case files to our son? Why would she even want to revisit them?

Will hands the folder back to her.

"What's this one about, Mom?"

"Well," Scully begins with a studied carelessness, " _this_ one is about a man who could make people think he was somebody else..."

My eyes bug a bit as I listen to Scully narrate the tale of the Don Juan of Martinsburg, wondering when she decided it was okay to initiate our precocious ten year-old into the intricacies of human reproduction...when she decided it was time to start telling tall tales of a life long since passed.

Scully reads Will snippets of the case report, her words punctuated by his protests of disbelief.

"But, *Mom*, I don't understand _how_ he could make people see someone else! People can't do that! Maybe..." He's stumped, and a look I haven't seen in years flits across his face. All of Scully's stubbornness is there, like it never went away. I find myself staring, a feeling - I can't put my finger on it, but it's not unpleasant or unwelcome - rushing over me as I listen.

She watches Will, smiling indulgently, but I sense her eyes on me as well.

"That's what I thought, too..."

Will looks up quickly.

"*You*? How did you know about it?"

Scully points down at the bottom of the last page.

"Look there."

Will leans over and squints a little, mouthing the words he sees.

"You were in the FBI, Mom?"

We never told him...never talked about it. There seemed to be no reason, and we had all the time in the world.

"Yep. Guess who my partner was?"

Scully fixes Will with a strangely intense look as she asks, and he immediately turns to me.

"Dad!...Wow...that's so cool!"

I can't help laughing at his excitement, but I know there's something more going on here. I just can't put my finger on it.

Scully giggles softly.

"I'm glad you approve. Want to hear some more stories?"

Will snuggles up next to his mother, delicately cradled in her needle-pierced arms, and nods. She reaches over to the nightstand that holds the box and pulls out a manila folder that's been stood on end, set aside by her. She kisses her son on the top of his head as he opens the cream cover, casting his eyes over the first page.

"*Vampires*, Mom?"

She giggles again...a sound I haven't heard in long weeks. Looking up at me, Scully telegraphs my promise to her, and I sit in the chair by her bed. She tells Will about the incompetent Vampire Ronny, and I find myself drawn into the tale. So many years have passed, and we *still* disagree on the details.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Scully can only visit for an hour or two at a time. When her eyes begin to droop and her head falls back sleepily on her pillow, I whisper to Will that it's time to go. He leans over and wraps his arms around her neck.

I don't hear her speak, but he responds, "I love you, too, Mom."

For some reason, his words bring tears to her eyes.

 

* * *

 

This isn't funny anymore.

This morning, when we arrive at the hospital, Scully has another file ready for Will. I glance at the cover as I go to place his coat on the table - I have to leave to pick Bill up at the airport - and I'm shocked to see the words 'Gibson Praise' typed on the small label. I look up quickly, angrily, at Scully; she avoids my eyes, instead turning to Will and welcoming him in her frail arms.

"Mommy!" Will goes to hug her, a small, worried smile on his face.

"Hey, little man." She looks him over, taking in his form with an achingly hungry look. She's too thin...her skin is too translucent.

She's slipping away.

"Are you sure you haven't grown overnight? You look bigger to me this morning..."

Will giggles; he's still at that age when his mom can lavish affection on him without adolescent bashfulness getting in the way. I'm touched - more than I want to admit - but this has all gone too far. I'm a heartbeat away from asking Will to give us a second alone when he looks down at the file and picks it up.

"Gibson Praise? What's that, Mom?"

Only now does Scully look up at me, a nervous firmness in her eyes.

"Gibson Praise isn't a 'what', Will, he's a 'who'."

"Okay,  _who_  is Gibson Praise?"

He climbs up onto the high bed, his short legs dangling. I remain standing; I'm not sure I want to hear.

"Well..." Scully takes a deep breath. "Gibson Praise was a little boy - like you."

"Was he ten, too?"

In spite of my reservations, I find myself trying to remember.

"No, a little older - he was twelve."

Will considers this.

"Why was he a case file?"

Scully looks up at me again, and something in her eyes compels me sit in my usual seat next to her bed. Years ago, I might have been able to read her intent...when I was practiced. When our conversations were about more than the groceries, or the dog, or the house. Today, I can only gaze back with blank eyes; I know she's trying to tell me something, but I don't understand.

Turning back to Will, Scully says softly, "Gibson Praise was...a very special boy."

I expect Will to be excited, to start in with a hundred rapid-fire questions about Gibson; it's his way.

Instead he's silent, his eyes locked on those of his mother. They register a scared spark of recognition and Scully slowly, gently, nods, before he's even said a word.

"He had headaches, too."

 

* * *

 

We asked nothing more than a normal life. After all that had happened over the years, neither of us expected that such a thing would be possible; I think, more than anything, that was what kept us apart for so long. Even Scully's pregnancy, clouded in mystery and uncertainty, seemed more aberration than miracle, and, though we couldn't speak our fears aloud, we both dreaded the possibilities it embodied.

When Will was born - perfect in every way - it was like the answer to a prayer. Ten fingers, ten toes...everything a baby should be, and we clung to his ordinariness. I had made Scully a believer, only to turn disbeliever myself - too much had been taken from me, from *us*, to keep pursuing my lost causes. Maybe we - humanity - were doomed; but, if that were the case, then it seemed time to start living, before it was too late. If there were hints that Will was anything other than average, we turned a blind eye to them.

 

* * *

 

There were hints.

Little things...a toddler growing unusually quiet moments before the phone would ring...always knowing where the missing things were...knowing when his mother, or I, needed a hug...doing things for us without being told...answering questions that hadn't been asked...and, more recently, the headaches.

Will had always been healthy - strangely so. The year chickenpox went around it essentially shut down his school. Other kids were laid up in bed, but Will played and played - perfectly fine. No fevers to send us to the emergency room, no throwing up on the new sofa, like other parents complained.

Until about a year ago. Will began coming home from school with uncharacteristically bloodshot eyes, holding his head and complaining of splitting headaches. We asked him to describe them, but he had no words. They weren't situated "here" or "there" - they were everywhere, exhausting him during the days, and keeping Scully and me awake at night with worry.

We had him tested; we expected the worst. Any number of illnesses - _normal_ illnesses - tortured our imaginations, but the doctors could find nothing. If Scully suspected anything else, she never mentioned it; for my part, I kept my deepest fears to myself. We watched him with wary eyes...and, eventually, his 'symptoms' seemed to fade.

It never occurred to me that he had simply learned to hide them.

 

* * *

 

I wait for Bill to deplane, playing Will's words over and over in my mind,  _seeing_  him - maybe for the first time.

His tired, sad eyes...looking from Scully to me, and back again...the way his small hands wring together - an unconscious gesture he's had since he was small. The little break in his voice.

_Did you like him, Mommy?_

How Scully reaches out a pale hand, brushes his hair from his eyes, nods with a teary smile.

_I did. I liked him very much..._

Me...looking from my wife to my son, my own vision blurring as I take his little hand in my own.

We _liked him very much, Will...but, we_ love _you. That will never change - that will never change._

The way his small arms wrap around my waist...the look in Scully's red-rimmed eyes as she turns them up to mine...

I'm lost in my thoughts; the next thing I know, Bill is standing in front of me, calling my name with a scowl on his face. Great. We haven't seen each other in nine years, and I've already managed to piss him off.

I hold out my hand, an apologetic smile on my face.

"Bill."

He takes my hand and gives it a perfunctory shake.

"Fox."

I reach out for his heavy bag; he hesitates a moment, then hands it to me silently. Our eyes meet, and he must see the strain in mine, because he suddenly reaches out a burly arm and claps me firmly on the shoulder. I return his gesture with a tight-lipped smile, and we leave together.

 

* * *

 

Bill is a pale man, but when he sees Scully his face turns white.

The changes have happened so gradually that it's difficult to see her through his eyes; but even I know she looks different than she did the last time she was sick. Then she was weak, tired and ill, but there was still a fire in her eyes that refused to go out. Even when she was sickest - when even I could imagine she would never leave that bed - there was an inner strength that was impossible to discount. I never truly believed she was going to die.

This time...she's so sick. Her beautiful hair is mostly gone...she wears a pretty pastel scarf over her head, and it lends a little color to her wasted complexion. She's grown thin - too thin for comfort. She's...transparent, and this is what scares me the most. Scully's always been so _real_ , solid...physical. She's fading away, becoming a ghost before my eyes, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Bill sees it, and it halts him in his tracks. Standing behind him in the doorway, I pat him on the back, trying to lend him what strength I can as he quickly comes to terms with this new reality. He looks back over his shoulder; whatever he may think of me, whatever doubts he has about our marriage, he knows I love Scully and that I'm going through the same pain. He smiles - a tight, bitter thing - and enters the room, calling softly to Scully.

We all have to grow up sometime.

Will is asleep in the bed next to hers, and Scully lifts a finger to her lips, warning us to keep our voices down. There's so much I want to say, to talk about with her; we need to discuss Will - what's happening with him. So much to say...but Bill's here now. There's never a good time.

I lean over and whisper in her ear.

"I'll be by in the morning. Will has to go to school..."

She gives me a sleepy little nod and looks up at me with trusting eyes. It's gotten so hard for her to talk...she puts up a good front for Will, but when it's just us...

She's so tired.

I kiss her softly on the cheek and scoop Will up in my arms; I've forgotten just how heavy he's become. Our strong little boy.

Bill sits in my chair at her side, and Scully turns her face to him, managing a wan smile as he takes her hand. Whatever I may think of him, whatever reservations I may have about his entire existence, I know that he loves her too

We all have to grow up sometime.

 

* * *

 

When I arrive in the morning, I discover that Bill has beaten me to the hospital. Peeking into her room, I see them together; Scully looking out the window at a cold, gray day while Bill reads a file - another file.

I wait outside in the hallway. I'm coming to see that Scully's been using these files to do her talking for her - to say things that she's too weak, or scared, to put into words - and I'm pretty sure I don't want to be there for this particular conversation.

When Bill emerges, he spies me sitting across from Scully's room, rubbing my aching head. Deja vu all over again. We've got to stop meeting like this.

He walks over to me; but instead of throwing stupid accusations at me, he simply sits down quietly, a thoughtful look on his face. I'm not sure how to respond. I want to go in and see Scully, but he seems to have something to say. For the first time, Bill reminds me of her...her puzzled, curious look settles on his features, as if he's working through a strange mental puzzle.

I shift in my seat and pick up my coat from the chair next to mine. My words break our silence.

"You're going into surgery tomorrow..."

He nods slowly, not looking up.

"Yes...nine o'clock."

I nod in response, and we fall silent again. I'm about to stand when Bill looks over at me.

"Fox... _Mulder_..."

I remain in place, slightly stunned by the casualness of his tone.

"Donnie Pfaster..."

My eyes widen in surprise, and, even now, I feel a shiver run through my body.

"How..." he pauses, thoughtful.

I look at him quizzically.

"How did you know?"

His eyes meet mine, and I instantly understand his question. I answer, without hesitation, "It was the song."

"That one..." I nod, and he says softly, "I remember."

A question springs to my eyes, and he explains, "I was there, too. When it was playing...when Mom came in - the Sunday School teacher - I remember it."

A moment later, he continues, "You believed her. She made me read the report...told me about your conversation. How it was just a feeling she'd had. And you believed her."

I shake my head.

"Bill, she saved herself. I didn't do anything."

"But you would have."

The memory of Donnie Pfaster - what he almost stole from me - brings a steely hardness to my eyes.

"I would have killed him."

Bill looks at me as if appraising me for the first time. His voice is a barely audible whisper.

"All because of a song - a feeling."

I look away. I don't know what he wants me to say.

We sit together for a time; then Bill speaks once more.

"I still don't believe in that alien crap."

Ah, but Bill, it believes in you...

"Fair enough."

He looks me over...a glimmer of - appreciation? - in his eyes. He nods and stands to go.

"See you tomorrow, Mulder."

I stand up and take his proffered hand.

"Rest up, Bill."

He nods again and turns to leave, walking slowly down the long hallway.

I go to Scully.

 

* * *

 

 I remember her as beautiful.

 

* * *

 

I enter Scully's room to find her face turned away, still contemplating the cold, wintry day just beyond her window. The sight of her in a hospital bed seems strangely anachronous to me; hospitals belong to another Scully - not to my wife. My wife doesn't wear anonymous blue gowns. She isn't violated by needles and tubes. She doesn't turn too-pale under the glare of fluorescent lights. My wife sleeps in the comfort of an old wooden bed, buried under soft layers of down, clothed in satiny pastels, bathed in firelight...

I haven't seen this Scully in years; yet, as I stand here watching her, I realize that I'm still as much in love with her as I've ever been with the woman she became. Somewhere, in a place I've forgotten, the man I was - the one who was willing to risk it all, who  _did_  and lost - has been waiting for her to come back. She's sick, but she's something else, too. Brave, unflinching. Strong. It's all that's left of her - a kind of ethereal strength that peeks through her wasted flesh.

She turns her face to me and, seeing the strange look on my face, starts in surprise.

"What is it, Mulder?"

I step close and, instead of taking my usual seat, sit on the side of her bed, like I used to do. I take her hand in mine and look down at her with old eyes, smiling.

"Nothing."

I nod my head in the direction of the door.

"What was that all about?"

Scully hesitates.

"Mulder...did you ever see 'Terminator'?"

I burst out laughing. Leave it to Scully to kill a meaningful moment.

"Did I *what*?"

Her soft laughter joins mine, but she continues, "See 'Terminator'. The movie."

"I know what it is, Scully. Yeah, I've seen it - why?"

Her eyes shift back towards the window; her smile fades.

"I keep thinking of a line in it. At the end - when the woman is in a car..."

I nod. "About a storm coming."

Scully looks into my eyes.

"Mulder, I - this is going to sound...crazy, I guess. I just...I think there's a storm coming. I don't believe it's over."

"Is this about Will?"

She nods. "About Will...and other things."

I gently smooth the soft skin of her hand with my fingers.

"How long - how did you know? About Will?"

She gives a slight shake of her head, as if frustrated with herself.

"I should have seen it sooner. I was in treatment...I had a lot of time to think, and my mind kept wandering back to..."

She looks away, and I pick up her thought.

"The past."

Scully nods.

"Old cases...people. Something about Gibson Praise kept nagging at me - something he said once. About why he played chess..."

"Because it was quiet."

"Yes." Then, "Did I ever tell you about that? What he said?"

I shake my head. "We didn't talk a lot in those days..."

Scully smiles wryly.

"That's true."

She's silent for a moment, and I remember Diana.

Hesitating slightly, she continues, "Something about what he said...or maybe it was the way he said it - something in his eyes. It reminded me of Will. How he talked about his headaches - being everywhere. All the time." She shrugs. "It just made sense."

"I know."

Scully nods. "You had them, too."

I can only nod back. It's my turn to stare out the window, watching as tiny snowflakes begin to drift to the ground.

"I'm sorry." It's all I can say.

I feel a small tug at my hand and look back at my wife. Her eyes would be reproachful, were it not for the insistent love I find there.

"Don't be. Mulder - what do you have to be sorry for?"

"I -"

"Stop it." Her tone is unyielding. "Don't ever do this to yourself again, Mulder. Stop blaming yourself..."

We should have had this conversation years ago. When I was careless, when we took risks. Today...if I look back - if I look down, all I'll see is how far there is to fall. I shake my head. Bite my lip and frown and try to keep my regrets at bay.

Scully pounds a fist against the bed. "Goddamn it, Mulder. Stop it." A mother's fierce wrath in her eyes. "Do you regret Will? He was a gift - not from God or man or anyone, but from you. *You* gave him to me. And whatever he is, or may be, he's ours - yours and mine. He wouldn't be Will without us - as we are."

Of course, she's right.

"Are you sorry for any of it, Mulder?"

What can I say? "No."

"Good, because neither am I. It was..." She laughs softly. "God, Mulder - what times we had."

"Do you regret - were we wrong to leave?"

Her face is thoughtful as she considers my question.

"I think...no. This is my feeling - I can't shake it. That we were given this time - with Will and each other - like..."

She gropes for a metaphor, and I supply it.

"The eye of a storm."

Scully smiles - a smile that melds my Scullys together. One made rich with our shared pasts, in all their forms.

"Exactly."

 

* * *

 

I remember her as beautiful, and so I try to forget the weeks that followed.

I think it was a source of no little pride to Bill that only his bone marrow was compatible with Scully's; so when her doctor told us that her body had begun to reject it, I think no one felt the shock quite like he did.

Graft-versus-host-disease is an ugly illness, and she was alone. Her immune system was weakened beyond the point of repair. It went after her major organs.

And then she was gone.

Bill and I now share something in common - something both of us would have given our lives not to have. A feeling, irrational but somehow inevitable, that we caused her pain. That we were somehow to blame - for her many sufferings, for her sacrifices, for her death.

He still mistrusts me; even now, he's reluctant to let go completely of the deep resentment he held against me for so long. But...Scully tried to make him see me for who I am - the one who loved her above all others. He remembers this, I think, and it's that knowledge that keeps his opinions in check.

That, and this thing we share. I don't think he'll ever be able to blame me for her pain without seeing her at the end and wondering where his own responsibility began. I don't wish this on him, but I understand the logic. For my part, it takes some of the burden from my own shoulders. Knowing that Bill is blameless makes it somehow easier for me to forgive myself.

 

* * *

 

Will grows stronger, bigger every day. His mother unlocked a door for him - for us - and we've slowly built a trust that allows us to talk about all he experiences. All the things he kept from us for so long - not wanting to worry us - as well as newer sensations and abilities. I have to be a little more careful these days - I don't want him to know how much these things both exhilarate and terrify me. I think there's never been a boy like Will, and I don't know what it means.

Mostly, though, Will is my salvation. He's the piece of Scully I kept - the one that smiles like her, who prods and pokes and aggravates like her. The beautiful one - I see her in his sleepy eyes, and she doesn't feel so far away. He reminds me that good - real good - came from the 'we' that Scully and I were.

 

* * *

 

I haven't seen Skinner since the funeral, but today I wait for him in a quiet booth at the Old Ebbitt Grill, slowly nursing an iced tea and remembering the last time I brought Scully here - more than 15 years ago.

He arrives flushed and out of breath; shaking off his overcoat, he sits and signals to the waiter. He orders a glass of water and demands to see a menu - ever the imperious A.D. - then turns to me.

"What are you laughing at, Mulder?"

I try to smother my smile. "Nothing, sir. It's just..."

His eyebrows rise - an altogether alarming look.

"It's been awhile, sir."

He squints slightly in a questioning glance. I remember that look well.

Skinner looks down at the table...brushes off a few stray breadcrumbs and says in a low voice, "Have you given some thought to my proposal?"

Gazing at the glass between my hands, I quietly reply, "Yes, I have."

I look up to find him staring intently at me.

"And?"

"What -" I take a deep breath. "What about Agent Doggett, sir?"

Skinner counters, "What about him?"

I shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. "He's been on the X-Files for more years than I was - they're more his now than they ever were mine."

"Mulder," he begins in a slightly exasperated tone. "John Doggett is a good man - the best kind. He works hard - his interest is in the truth. He has no agendas."

I nod. What I hear of his work tells me that this is true.

"But," Skinner continues. "Doggett - after all he's seen, he still balks at...possibilities. His solve rate has fallen so low - they're never going to let him out of that basement. He's buried down there, Mulder. Getting older. That's it."

Skinner shakes his head; a vaguely pitying gesture I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of.

"He's a good guy, Mulder, but he's not you. He doesn't see things the way you do - or did."

He fixes me with a penetrating look, and I nod.

"Do. Sir."

A firm nod of his head; a glimmer of relief. If I didn't know any better, I'd think Walter had been worrying about me.

"Come back to the bureau, Mulder."

I sit silently, iced tea in hand, considering his request.

Maybe...

maybe...

...it's time to tempt fate again.


End file.
